


Dark Places, Bright Feelings

by boltshok



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cutting, Drinking, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-04 14:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltshok/pseuds/boltshok
Summary: During the war, Blast Off and Vortex were killed, cracking the spark bonds between the Combaticons. After the war ended, Brawl, Swindle, and Onslaught were assigned to stay with the Autobots as a sign of goodwill. Swindle refused to stay, Onslaught felt guilty about the loss of his gestalt partners and left. Poor Brawl was abandoned to the kindness of the Autobots, and he is suffering.





	1. Help

**Author's Note:**

> TW for a suicide attempt in this chapter

Swerve stands behind the bar, washing out a set of whiskey glasses. Brawl is seated at the end of the bar counter, nearest the wall. For the third day and night in a row, his armor is dirtied and his right forearm is covered in faded, crusty, dried energon. Swerve watches him closely, pulling glasses out of the sink and drying them off.

“You alright?” Swerve asks, trying to catch Brawl’s gaze. Brawl’s unnerving, deep red eyes are fixed on the back wall of the bar.

Brawl doesn’t answer, but his optics do find Swerve’s.

“Heya, Swerve!”

Brawl drops his gaze, studying the counter.

“Hey, Bluestreak,” Swerve says, turning to face the Praxian, plastering a grin all over his face. “What can I getchu?”

“Just a tray of something fun,” Bluestreak begins, gesturing to his group. He is accompanied by a grouping of younger-looking Mecha. “We're just here to have fun and talk! Prowl said I needed to get out and meet some new friends, so I started going to the shooting classes and met some new people and we're all really interested in guns and stuff and-”

“Alright, Blue! One tray of fun coming up,” Swerve interjects with a grin, moving to his wall of energon cubes, grabbing a few cubes and then a flask. “I'll bring it out to ya.”

Bluestreak and his group move off, giggling and chatting. Swerve turns back to Brawl, but the tank has receded further into his corner.

“Brawl... really,” Swerve murmurs, stepping closer.

Unable to tease out a verbal response from Brawl, Swerve leaves him to his own devices as he prepares the tray of drinks and delivers it to Bluestreak's table. When Swerve returns, Brawl is standing up, high-grade cube emptied. He slouches over to the door, wobbling a little. Steadying himself on the counter, he slinks out of _The Cube_ , entering the hallway.

Swerve watches him leave, slowly deflating. He activates his com, stepping back behind the bar and turning his back to the patrons.

“Hey, uh, Rung,” Swerve begins. “You told me to tell you when Brawl, uh... when he has issues? Yeah, well... I think he's in the middle of it.”

“I see,” Rung replies gently. “Well, thank you for telling me, Swerve. I will look into this.”

...

Rung ends the com, moving over to the desk in his quarters. He pulls up a small handheld computer, unfolding it and propping it up on his desk. Pulling up the Autopedia, he locates Brawl’s file, bringing it up and glancing through it.

Brawl was... an uncooperative patient. He submitted to the mandatory requirement decreed by the Prime, but supplied the most minimal responses required. He had just lost a second member of his combiner team, so no one thought too much about it.

Rung activates his com as he reads over Brawl’s past responses. The com is picked up, Brawl silent on the other end.

“Brawl, this is Rung,” he begins. “How are-”

Brawl ends the com. Rung sighs, and stands up. Best to find this problem at the source. Locking up his office, he walks quietly down the hall, nodding to the guard in the mainbay before continuing on. Rung knew the location of everyone’s quarters on base, since he needed to be able to check the quarters of any Mecha at request.

...

In his quarters, Brawl held his knife close, thumb running over the knife’s hilt. This knife wasn’t always his—it used to belong to Vortex. Both of Brawl’s arms already bore the marks of previous days’ worth of suffering, oozing coagulated energon. Bringing the knife to his wrist, Brawl sighs. He could see Vortex and Blast Off in his mind’s eye. Onslaught, Swindle... all of them together again. Bringing the blade to his wrist, Brawl prepares to slice open the tubing containing his life-blood.

Someone knocks on the door.


	2. A Friend in Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! Brawl does do some self-harming in this chapter.

Brawl pauses, blade pressed to his wrist. Who could that be? The knock comes again, and Brawl’s fingers clench around the hilt of the knife. No. He shouldn’t pay attention to that. Doesn’t matter. 

When he touches the knife to his wrist again, the knock repeats. Brawl vents and growls to himself, slamming the knife down on the berth. Dammit! What if it was Fort Max? Brawl, even though he admired Overlord for his ruthless power, felt sorry for Fort Max. Sorry enough to find a second berth and wedge it into his room for when Fort Max had nightmares and needed someone else nearby. Brawl knew how terrible night terrors could be.

Fumbling with the armor he had removed to get at his sensitive energon lines, he opens the door. Instead of Fort Max’s teal armor, Brawl looks down, down... at the tiny Autobot psychiatrist, Rung. His lip curls up, taking in Rung’s petite frame and gentle expression.

“What?” Brawl growls, hand gripping the doorframe tightly.

“I came by to ask advice,” Rung says, gazing up at Brawl, optics unblinking behind his glasses. “For a friend.”

Brawl’s cycling hitches. Advice...?

“And you’re asking... me?” Brawl grunts, hand loosening on the doorframe. “Rung, I’m... not the best. For that.”

“Oh,” Rung says, pulling his glasses off and polishing them with a small cloth he pulls out of subspace. “I had hoped you would be able to help. It’s for a friend of Fortress Maximus’.”

The mention of Fort Max makes Brawl perk up a little. The tiny Autobot psychiatrist didn’t know everything after all.

“I... could try. To help,” Brawl hears himself say. “Just... don’t get your hopes up.”

“Any guidance would be appreciated,” Rung says, replacing his glasses and smiling up at Brawl. 

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Brawl steps back. “Uh. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Rung says, entering the small hab suite. “May I sit down?”

“...yeah. Anywhere.”

Rung sits down on the spare berth, primly pressing his legs together. With a grunt and a squeak of his knees, Brawl sits down on his berth. He folds his hands and leans forward on his knees, deep red optics inspecting Rung. Neither of them speak until Brawl is finished studying Rung’s posture and looks away. “So. Advice.”

Rung nods. “Fort Max’s friend has been suffering for some time, and I have been unable to help.”

Brawl stares at the wall, responding after a period of silence. “So? That takes time,” Brawl replies. “Autobots don’t know everything.”

“Which is exactly why I came to you,” Rung says. “You know what I don’t.”

Brawl scratches at one of the dried cuts between his armor seams, thinking. Processing. “...do they have a mate?”

“Two,” Rung replies, crossing his legs. “They aren’t in contact though.”

“Then that should come first,” Brawl says. Mates... bondmates... he thinks back on his days with the other Combaticons. Witty Swindle. Silly Vortex. Confident Blast Off. Strong Onslaught. Always present, always together. Until they weren’t.

“That should come first,” Brawl repeats, turning from scratching at the cut to poking it. Soft, burning pain blooms underneath his fingertip. He controls it. Controls how much it hurts. Controls when it hurts.

Rung nods, placing his hands on the berth. “Fort Max suggested that already. Not all of them want to meet up yet.”

“It happens,” Brawl rumbles, closing his optics. He pushes in at the cut, and feels it split open. Energon wells up under his finger, and he rubs it in slowly. Bondmates. They couldn’t see him like this. He has to be strong.

“...is there anyone else? Fort Max is...” Brawl’s voice trails off. “He still needs help.”

“Not that I know of,” Rung says. “Fort Max hasn’t mentioned any.”  
Friends. Brawl used to have friends. Now he just talks to Fort Max. Just Fort Max. Only Fort Max?

“Who is this friend?” Brawl asks, turning his optics on Rung. “Maybe I could talk to them. Personally.”

Rung uncrosses his legs. “I think you know, Brawl.” He stands up, optics bright and expression still gentle and pleasant. “And I mean it. Fortress Maximus is worried about you. So am I. We both want to see you happy and flourishing here, but that is hard to foster when you don’t reach out for help.”

Brawl looks away, closing his optics tightly. “Get out.”

Rung stands there for a few moments, watching the tension growing in Brawl’s frame before he quietly opens the door and leaves, closing the door softly after him. 

As Rung’s footsteps fade down the hall, Brawl’s frame begins to tremble, then shake, until he is practically vibrating. His hand finds the knife abandoned on his berth, and he snatches it up. Glaring down at it, he roars and slams it into the wall. 

“Slag this!” Brawl bellows, standing up sharply. 

His hot anger shatters into screaming pain from his knees, and he sits back down on the berth, wheezing. Stupid Autobot medics. Can’t trust ‘em. Brawl slowly lies back on the berth, straightening out his knees as much as he can stand before he closes his optics. The knife can wait. Can wait until tomorrow. He has to talk to Fort Max first.


	3. Lonely Nights

Swindle looks up from his account books, palming at the armor over his spark chamber. One of the remaining Combaticons must be having a hard time; the nagging ache in his spark has been throbbing for a while now, and hasn’t gone away. It dulls sometimes, but never fully fades.

“Heya, boss, you feelin’ alright?” one of Swindle’s underlings asks, bringing crate of processor modification chips into the room.

“Fine. Don’t worry about it,” Swindle says, forcing himself to turn back to his work. Just work through it. It’ll go away. The Combaticons were never combining again anyway.  
...  
Brawl wakes up in a feverish frenzy the following evening. Once his systems are online and humming, Brawl leaves his room in search of Fort Max. He isn’t in the bar, so he must be at home. Brawl stalks through the corridors of the Autobase, receiving some side glances from the Autobots he passes. Who cares. He doesn’t have time for them anyway. He must find Fort Max.

Fort Max lived on the other side of the base, near Rung’s office. He claimed it was just in case he had a problem and needed to see Rung immediately, but Brawl didn’t buy it. Fort Max could get the same “treatment” from Brawl that he got from Rung. The tiny psychiatrist was absolutely useless.

Brawl arrives at Fort Max’s door and roughly bangs on it with his fist. After a few moments Max tentatively opens the door. “Hello...? Oh, Brawl. It’s you. Are you okay?”

Brawl pushes past Max into the room. “Been better,” he grunts. “You?”

“Feeling okay today,” Max responds, laughing softly. “What-“

Brawl turns to face him, optic burning hot. “You know what. Rung. Last night.”

Max’s shoulders droop, and he sighs, closing the door. “Brawl, I’m worried about you,” Max confesses. “You’ve been hurting a long time, and-“

Brawl growls and rushes at Max, shoving him up against the door. “And? You think I’m some sad case for your shrink?”

“Wha- no! No, I don’t think that at all,“ Max manages to grunt as Brawl wedges his forearm under Max’s chin. “Brawl, stop-”

Max pushes against Brawl’s chest, sending the other mech stumbling away. One of Brawl’s knees squeals in protest and he falls back onto the floor. Brawl grips his right knee tightly in both hands, denta gritted. Fort Max rubs his neck cabling and focuses his gaze on Brawl.

“You’re a shadow of your former self,” he says, meeting Brawl’s optics before glancing away. “And... I care about you. It hurts to see you like this.”

“And you’re just a shell,” Brawl retorts, dragging himself upright. “A husk left behind by Overlord’s _playtime_.”

Fort Max stares at him, optics unfocusing as he leans against the wall. Brawl limps towards the door and opens it roughly. “I don’t need a savior,” he growls, turning his gaze away from Max. “Frag you.”

Favoring his right knee, he limps out into the hallway. With a determined huff, he begins dragging himself back towards his room, ignoring the gawking of the mechs he passes. It takes him twice as long to hobble back to his room than normal, and as soon as he makes it in the door he collapses onto his berth. His right knee seizes up and Brawl grips it firmly, closing his eyes as the pain makes him see stars.  
...  
He doesn’t even realize he fell into recharge until he is waking up in the middle of the night, tanks empty and demanding fuel. His knee is nearly immovable now, and when he drags himself upright his processor receives urgent maintenance requests from the damaged joint. Denying the requests, Brawl limps out of his room, heading for _The Cube_.  
...  
The night was dark. There were no stars, there was no moon. They were either blocked out by clouds or too dim to be noticed, making it difficult to recognize anyone in the group of arguing mechs behind the base.

“I said FINE!” a big, square mech shouts, pushing another away. “Slag all of you! I’m leaving.”

“Bones, wait-” Another mech reaches for him, clinging to his arm.

Roughly shoving him away, Bonecrusher turns to snarl down at him. “Get off! I’ve had enough of you four to last.”

“But, Bonecrusher-”

“Leave me alone! Please,” Bonecrusher mutters, marching towards the door they came from. “I need some time.”

Anger and frustration blinds him as he continues walking. He finally wakes up in front of _The Cube_ ’s doors. Neon from the sign reflects off of his armor, and after studying the glow for a moment he enters the bar. Infectious music flows into him, Jazz’s crooning voice warm and melting into his spark. Almost in a trance, Bonecrusher sits down at the bar. Swerve turns to him, cheerfully polishing a glass.

“What can I get you tonight?” he asks, giving Bonecrusher a once over.

Bonecrusher stares at Swerve for a moment, before sighing softly and glancing away. “Just some high-grade. Anything’ll do.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bonecrusher leans on the bar counter and examines the other mech seated at the bar. Nearer the wall, another former Decepticon drains a flask of enjex. He makes no effort to interact with Bonecrusher, but his red optic’d gaze was dark, brooding, and uncomfortable to be under for long. Bonecrusher offers him a faint smile, but the other mech simply looks away, resuming his quiet consumption of energon.

“Here ya go!” Swerve chirps, sliding a cube down the bar to Bonecrusher. “Wanna glass?”

“No,” Bonecrusher grunts, taking the cube and turning around. He surveys the dancefloor and accompanying seating arrangement. He was in a righteously foul mood and he really did not want to go back to the others tonight, so he started observing the nightlife.

There’s Bluestreak, rubbing up against some other Autobot, and over there is Sideswipe trying and failing to hit on a femme seated in one of the booths. Jazz slides off the stage and into the crowd, still singing away. He takes another mech by the hand and starts dancing close to him, humming the chorus of his song. Bonecrusher is no good at dancing, so he continues inspecting the sea of mecha, surveying the room for anyone desperate enough to take him home.

“Hey. You alright?”

The rough voice catches Bonecrusher off guard, and he quickly assesses the voice’s location before turning to face the mech at the end of the bar; the same mech with the deep red optics is now glaring directly at him.

“Uh... yeah,” Bonecrusher sighs, taking a drink of his cube. “Been a long day. You?”

The other mech shrugs. “I’m here. Bonecrusher?”

Setting his cube down, Bonecrusher nods. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s your designation? You look familiar.”

“Brawl,” the tank-mech grunts, finishing off his drink. “People-problems?”

Bonecrusher’s optics burn more brightly, and he grits his denta. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Silence falls between them as Bonecrusher nurses his cube. “You uh, live with anyone?”

“No,” Brawl replies, bitterly. “You goin’ home tonight?”

“I was hoping not to, so...”

“You can come with me,” Brawl sighs. “I’ve got an empty berth.”

Bonecrusher smiles to himself, holding his cube of high-grade close. Brawl glances up at Swerve, silently asking the barkeep for another drink, which is delivered into his waiting hands moments later. Bonecrusher leans over and offers his own cube to Brawl in a toast, and Brawl touches his flask to Bonecrusher’s cube gently before taking a long drink.

While Bonecrusher sips on his drink, Brawl finishes his and Swerve delivers a third. “That’s it, I’m cutting you off,” Swerve murmurs to him. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Brawl sighs, starting in on his last engex. Bonecrusher watches him slug the high powered fuel out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing. How could he stomach that stuff? And he’s already finished off two others while Bonecrusher was sitting here.

When Bonecrusher is finished with his own cube, Brawl gulps his remaining energon and stands uneasily.

“I’m ready,” Brawl grunts. “If you are.”

Bonecrusher nods a little, turning for the door.

“You two have fun!” Swerve calls from behind the counter, giving them a bright smile. Neither mech smiles back, and they exit together.

Brawl takes the lead, limping down the hallway towards his room. He stops in front of a hab suite door and slowly keys in the door’s lock code. Pushing the door open, Brawl shuffles inside and activates the room’s lighting. A single bare bulb alights on the ceiling, buzzing and flickering briefly before remaining lit.

Immediately to either side of the door are the berths, and straight ahead is a small, cluttered desk with a beaten chair. To the right of the desk is a shelf with not much on it. The floor is gritty and dirty, and the walls don’t seem much better. A few of the smears on the wall are hand prints in energon.

“Energon’s mine,” Brawl rumbles, turning to face Bonecrusher.

A roach crawls along the wall, antennae waving madly before it darts away to hide. The more Bonecrusher studies the room, the more grime he notices. There are piles of debris in the corners and empty, molding energon cubes piled on the desk.

“This one’s mine,” Brawl says, moving towards the berth on the right. “You can have th’ other.”

Bonecrusher turns for the other berth, slowly reaching out to touch it. It appears to be clean... there’s only a little grit on it...

Brawl shuts the door and sits down on his berth heavily. Without asking, he reaches over and turns the light off. Bonecrusher looks up sharply as they are plunged into darkness and he watches as Brawl slumps back on the berth with a soft groan. His brilliant red optics stare at the ceiling for a few moments more before closing.

Bonecrusher watches Brawl fall asleep, and slowly lies back on his berth, studying the ceiling. He closes his optics and listens to the scuttling feet of the roaches skitter across the floor as he wills himself to sleep.


End file.
